Snowed Inn
by GIRL IN STORY
Summary: The Losers get snowed in after defeating It.


Bill volunteered to clean the library by himself, because dead bodies gave Eddie a psychosomatic panic attack.

Eddie was exempt anyway. He and Bev had Divorce Support Group at the bar, because the WiFi was "better" there. The Losers knew it was really another kind of support group, but they gave the bar a respectful berth every day from one to two. Richie took his alcohol to go, which had the added benefit of concealing just how much of it he was taking.

Ben was busy drafting something due a week ago. He had propped up two legs of his hotel desk with books from the library that were too bloody to save.

Mike had a free pass from any and all onerous tasks, because he had stayed in Derry for twenty-seven years. He offered to help anyway. The snow was too deep to drive through, so they walked. It was only two blocks, three if you had to cut through Richard's Alley to Center Street Drug for supplies.

Richie offered to help as well, because… "Well, I made the mess."

He skipped breakfast, just in case, but on the second day, Bill had insisted he stay behind.

Eddie was setting up his laptop when Richie stopped by the bar to peruse the remaining liquor selection.

No staff had been seen since check-in.

On the one hand, it gave them plenty of time to clean the blood from Eddie's room. They would get around to it eventually. He took Richie's room in the meantime. Richie didn't mind; the last thing he wanted was to sleep, but for some reason, Eddie had looked disappointed when he offered up his bed.

On the other hand, Richie was out of bourbon.

He pulled down a bottle of Hendrick's and studied the fake-aged label. Distilled with cucumber and roses. He'd never been a gin man, but that was basically the Frappuccino of the gin world.

"Do you think it's magic snow?" asked Eddie.

"Why, Elsa?" asked Richie, popping the actual cork from its apothecary-style bottle. Hendrick's was feloniously hipster, but it did add a touch of class to his alcoholism. "Did you let it go?"

Eddie flipped him off without looking up from his screen.

"No magic." Richie looked out the window. "Just Maine."

Eddie's nose wrinkled as he sniffed the air. Only then did he look up. "Is that—"

"Eighty-eight proof," said Richie, taking a stage gulp. That was smooth. For gin, which wasn't saying much since most gin tasted like hand sanitizer smelled, but. Still. The rose was more delicate than he'd expected from the heavy-handed branding. Not soapy at all. So Eddie probably wouldn't like it. "That's the only thing that matters."

Eddie's nose wrinkled again, but this time it stayed that way. "Do you usually drink this much?"

"M'on vacation," Richie stage-slurred.

"Have you even called your manager?"

"Pretty sure he blocked my number." Richie laughed. "Hey, what do you get when you cross a comedian with a personal life?"

"What?" Eddie asked, looking like it was against his better judgment and possibly a few promises he'd made to himself.

"Replaced," said Richie.

"Shit," said Eddie. "Rich…"

Richie waved the bottle. "Forget it."

"Is that why you're drinking?" asked Eddie, but it was softer this time.

Before Richie could lie, Bev slid into her usual seat. "Ready for the Lawsuit Winners Club to come to disorder?"

"I was just leaving," said Richie. "I should probably give Mike and Bill a hand."

"You're going to puke," said Eddie.

Richie waved the bottle again, but this time he remembered to put the cork back in first. At least it wouldn't stain. Another point for gin.

"Happy divorcing."

Bev blew him a kiss.

Richie's feet took him to the Kissing Bridge instead of the library. It didn't take long to find his mark. He wondered if his memories were clearer than they would have been, left to age like everyone else's. His were fresh. Tarnished by neither time nor nostalgia. He could remember, not only Pennywise, but Bill's punch and Bowers' punches. His childhood wasn't perfect, but one part was. Richie traced the letters with one finger, barely feeling the splinters through his callouses.

"Richie!"

When he looked up, it was evening, and Eddie was there. He had called Richie's name, and going by his expression, it hadn't been the first time.

"What the hell is wrong with you? You're not wearing a coat or anything. Surviving an infanticidal clown only to die of pneumonia might be the dumbest thing you've ever done, and I remember the Don't Touch That incident."

Eddie had Richie's coat slung over one arm. He shook it out and started poking Richie's hands through the sleeves, like he was a particularly unattractive Barbie doll.

"What are you doing here?" asked Richie.

"That's what I should be asking you," said Eddie. His gloved fingers fumbled with the zipper for a moment before pulling it all the way up to Richie's chin. "Bill came back and said you never showed, so I went looking."

"I forgot to."

"You should not be wandering around town drunk. There's still normal dangerous things, like muggers and tetanus. What's wrong with—"

He broke off, and Richie followed his gaze to the bottle of gin. It was sitting on the railing of the Kissing Bridge. It was still full.

"I forgot that too," said Richie.

Eddie smoothed his hands over Richie's shoulders, like he was ironing out the coat, even though it was a puffer jacket and not subject to the laws of physics.

"What's wrong with you, Richie?" he asked again, but this time, it was so soft that Richie wanted to sleep in it.

He hadn't wanted to sleep since the Deadlights.

"You're keeping something from us," said Eddie. "I know it's been a long time, but you can trust— You can trust me."

"I know," said Richie. "I don't want to hurt you."

"I'm stronger than I look."

Eddie said it with a self-deprecating laugh, but Richie said, "I know," again. "You shouldn't have to be. You're already dealing with so much. The divorce, the abuse, the—"

Richie shut his mouth so fast he almost bit his tongue in half.

"It's okay," said Eddie. "It was abuse. Bev's helping me document it. I'm helping her. I want to help you too, but I'm only a little psychic, so you're going to have to give me a hint."

That got a real laugh out of Richie, until Eddie said:

"Is this about your feelings for me?"

Richie choked on his laugh. "Wh— What?"

Eddie had gone as pink as the sunset-colored snow. "I just— I mean, I didn't think— but Bev said—"

"Why would she say that?"

Richie had always suspected she suspected. Bev was one of the more psychic Losers, perhaps because of her exposure to the Deadlights, but probably not, because Richie had also been in the Deadlights, and he still had to sniff the milk every morning. It was probably women's intuition. Unless that was sexist. Then it was just Bev.

She had smiled whenever Richie and Eddie fought over the hammock, or a video game, or nothing at all. It hadn't been the same as Stan's tolerant amusement or Mike's benevolent fondness. It had been something secretive, like she knew his, but would never tell.

Bev would never—

"Richie, breathe. She doesn't care. No one cares. Well, I do, but—"

Richie couldn't stop the flinch. He had to get back into acting lessons or something. Maybe that guy whose book he'd pretended to read. Cocteau? No, Cousineau.

Eddie actually snapped his fingers in front of Richie's face. "Stop dissociating, dipshit. I love you."

Richie's ankles felt weak. Was that something that happened to real people or just Victorian heroines? Richie could use a fainting couch. The hipsters should bring them back.

Maybe his ankles had gotten hurt falling from the Deadlights. They didn't go to the hospital in real life, because Eddie was fine. He was fine, and he was alive, and this was definitely real, because he called Richie a dipshit, but he also said—

"Richie, breathe, for fuck's sake. It's— It's okay if Bev was wrong. Even if you don't… reciprocate my feelings, I value our friendship, so—"

Richie dropped to the Kissing Bridge. It wasn't a graceful fall. That was not, apparently, in his repertoire. He fell to his knees first, which could have given Eddie at least two (mostly) wrong impressions. Then he sat back on his heels. They were damp with snow. So were his knees. At least he hadn't landed on his butt. It would have looked like he had peed himself. Which he actually had done, a little, when he fell out of the Deadlights. Both times. The first time, it was the least upsetting thing he'd been covered in.

The second time, he had tied his coat around his waist, since he wasn't using it to staunch Eddie's blood. The real time.

This was real.

This was—

"Richie?"

He raised his hand to trace the letters one more time.

R+E.

Eddie's intake of breath was barely audible. In the summer, it would have been drowned out by the waves below, but the Kenduskeag was frozen silent.

The wood splintered, and this time, it found a point of entry. Richie's finger began to bleed, but he didn't notice until Eddie dumped gin on it.

Richie glared at Eddie, who shrugged, unapologetic. He poured gin on his own hands and plucked out the splinter.

"I forgot my hand sanitizer, and you're going to get infected. Do you know how many diseases this bridge probably has? It's called the Kissing Bridge."

Richie raised his finger and sucked the gin off, with a sound that was only a little more obscene than he intended.

The silence that followed was not unexpected (Richie had that effect on conversations). The words that broke it were.

"Am I the E?" asked Eddie.

Richie nodded.

"Still?"

Richie nodded again.

"So we're idiots?"

Nod.

This time Eddie's question had a precipitous pause. "Are you speechless?"

Richie shook his head.

"Yes, you are." Eddie slid his hands under Richie's puffer coat and gripped his hips. Richie made a noise, but it was in no way intelligible. "Another reason I should have done this a long time ago."

Neither of them talked for a while after that.


End file.
